


take my hand

by dearly-beloved (fangirls5ever)



Category: Bungou Stray Dogs (BSD)
Genre: (the sacred tag), Armed Detective Agency, Dancing, Double Black, Fluff, Gen, Getting Together, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Soukoku, gala - Freeform, help me I don’t know fashion, i die inside a little to type this but I’ll also tag it twin dark, in which Dazai is the one to finally get a pretty dress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 16:19:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16308572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirls5ever/pseuds/dearly-beloved
Summary: ——In which Dazai wears a beautiful dress, stops an assassination, and maybe gets a boyfriend, all in that order.——





	take my hand

It’s sitting on his bed when he unlocks his apartment that evening, tucked neatly into a cream box with a red satin ribbon tied atop. In a small, near-empty apartment painted monochrome, the package is the most eye-catching thing in the whole space, Dazai’s eyes flitting to it the second he slides open the bedroom screen.

His lips curve up in an almost wicked smile at the sight of it, eyes gleaming as he tucks his keys back in his pocket and takes quick steps to stand in before where it rests on the bed. Dazai reaches out one hand to finger the smooth ribbon wrapped around it, grip lightly sliding down to the small card nestled in its folds.

The writing on it is slanted, curved neatly, and Dazai swears he can taste a sharp, acidic tang in each word as he reads them out loud: “No more favors left, Osamu. This is the last one you’re getting. Sincerely, Estes.”

Tossing the card aside, Dazai turns curious eyes again to the package, hands reaching out to grab the edges of the ribbon and give them a sharp tug. The length of satin flutters down to rest on either side of the package as he brushes the now untied ribbon off the top. Licking his lips, he pulls the lid free, and peers in expectantly, brown eyes taking in its contents with a shine.

Pooled inside the box are lengths and lengths of black fabric with pale accents, the whole ensemble shimmering with oil-like rainbow colors in the weak lighting. Dazai hums appreciatively as he lifts the dress from the box, admiring the soft, smooth fabric that slips against his skin like water, perfectly lightweight and thin. The dress itself is almost floor-length, with a long slit along its side just as he requested, added to improve his mobility in case the mission went awry.

(It wouldn’t. Dazai had calculated every outcome himself, and everyone, from the ADA to the Port Mafia, knew Dazai’s calculations were never wrong.)

Brown eyes bright, Dazai lays the dress out along the length of the bed, tugging his phone out of his pocket and tapping out a quick text.

—

_Dazai Osamu, 7:29_

You’ve outdone yourself this time, Estes. Any particular reason?

—

Satisfied with the message, Dazai doesn’t bother to wait for a reply, instead tossing the device aside and looking again into the box. Pressed against the back of it, wrapped in crinkly white paper, is a pair of black matte stilettos, a curly letter E pressed into the sole to remind Dazai of just how expensive this particular favor was. Dazai balls up the paper and flicks it away, eyeing the shoes as he reaches in and holds them up to where the dress rests on the bed.

Really, they would be simply perfect if they didn’t add four inches more to his height.

Dazai’s phone chimes as a new text lights up its screen, the name _Fashion Icon(TM)_ flashing across the screen before it again goes black. Snatching it up from its spot by the dress, Dazai smirks as he leans back against the bed frame and skims over the message.

—

_Fashion Icon(TM), 7:34_

It’s my last dress for you, Osamu, and I can hardly dare to disappoint. I must say, though, that I’m glad you chose to model this one yourself—while the previous subject’s height was interesting to work with, designing ninety-nine dresses for the exact same client grows wearisome to say the least.

This is the hundredth dress, and as such, my favor is repaid. Your lucky I like you, Osamu. Ask nicely, and perhaps we can come to a new arrangement.

Cheers.

Estes

—

Whatever arrangement she seeks, it isn’t one that Dazai can fulfill in his current position. It had been a small matter when he was in the mafia, hands already stained jet black, asking himself what did it matter if he only dirtied them a little more? He was already inhuman—what more could he lose?

Still, whatever arrangement Estes alluded to, it was simply a fact that she made the finest dresses he had ever laid eyes upon. It was such a pity that the side of the angels frowned on the fraud and extortion he’d have to commit to own another; Dazai might have started a collection.

Eyes flicking to the clock at the top of the screen, Dazai feels the familiar flicker of energy beneath his skin, curling in his veins the way it does in a near brush with death. Dazai can count on one hand the things that make him feel like this, things that break through the heavy apathy he’s learned to wield as reflex. (If you feel nothing, then nothing can truly hurt you, not even the broken bones or silver scalpel or empty, doll-like smile Mori gives him when they meet, knowing, so horribly _knowing—_ ).

The mission starts officially in just two hours according to Kunikida’s blow-by-blow schedule, a detailed spreadsheet describing exactly how the night will pass having been stuffed into Dazai’s hands before he was pushed out the door to prepare. (Said spreadsheet had met its end only seconds later in the paper-shredder by the door, Dazai having given the outline a cursory glance before deeming it, as expected, a bit too rigid for his tastes. After all, what fun would it be if he didn’t stir up even a little bit of trouble? It could help Kunikida lighten up a bit, which could only benefit his high blood pressure).

The mission, given to the Detective Agency by a pale, weak-kneed business mogul, was both protection and intelligence gathering at a high-class company gala, though a closer look at the seemingly innocuous schedule suggested a darker agenda. Their client had been correct in his suspicions—a hit had indeed been placed in him, and the charge was likely placed from within his own corporation. The mogul’s security team was prepared to deal with any normal threat, but the ADA suspected a gifted assassin would be sent in to complete the hit.

And what better than a gifted detective to discover and neutralize the killer?

Naturally, upon learning of the event, the Detective Agency thought it wise to exploit the anonymity that the event would lend by sending in one of their members as the client’s date. The vote for it had been unanimous, and the members entirely in agreement until one small, key issue had been raised.

Who, exactly, would act as the client’s date?

Naomi, by virtue of being almost permanently glued to her brother, was cast out as a candidate. Kyouka, because of her age, was also quickly pushed aside. That left only Yosano, who, due to no interest in the man and a graphic threat of violence against each and every Agency member, was also quickly crossed off the list.

All remaining possible Agency members had stared at each other blankly, silence only broken by the occasional crinkling of candy wrappers as Ranpo worked his way through a bag of caramels.

None were eager to volunteer themselves for the position. Truly, it was only a question of who the group would turn on first.

Tanizaki answered this question only fifteen seconds into the Agency-wide staring contest.

“Atsushi could do it,” Tanizaki offered weakly, scratching the back of his neck and looking away from where Atsushi gaped at him. “I mean, he’s the newest member.”

“And as such, the least experienced,” Yosano countered, arching a brow. Bemusement radiated from every inch of her as both boys whipped about to face her, one wide-eyed with hope and the other with fear. “You, on the other hand... how long have you been with us, Tanizaki?”

Before the orange-haired boy could reply, Kenji had cut in, finally grasping the situation. “A gala?” he asked, eyes sparkling and hands clasping together as though in prayer. “A real gala? City folk sure are amazing, having such lavish parties and fancy foods—I’d love to go!”

The Agency members watched blankly as Kenji beamed at them each in turn, practically glowing, wrapped up in whatever flavor-of-the-day excitement he’d found for this new aspect of the city. Few had the heart to refuse him in the face of such joy, with even Kunikida managing only a weak, “Kenji, no...”

Dazai saw fit to end the problem as quickly as it came.

“He’s too excited,” Dazai said, propping his chin up with one hand and crossing his legs beneath the desk. “He’d blow his cover immediately.”

“I’m probably do the same,” Atsushi added hopefully, casting Dazai an obvious plea to _back him up just this once._ “I don’t think I could pretend to be high class enough for the event.”

Dazai could be a supportive mentor just this once, he supposed. Nodding, Dazai turned to Kunikida. “Most people here wouldn’t be able to pass as aristocracy—maybe only me, Yosano, and Fukuzawa.”

Kunikida, shaking off the daze of Kenji’s enthusiasm, turned to pin Dazai with a long, flat stare, a muscle working in his jaw as he forced out through gritted teeth, “We are not asking the Agency President to go along as our client’s date.”

Dazai arched a brow, lips curving up in a smirk. “Kunikida,” he sighs, cocking his head to the side, “surely you must know that even I would never suggest such a thing—I was merely stating a fact. If I truly must spell it out for you, then let me say that even you couldn’t miss the one viable candidate out of those three.”

Ignoring the ear-piercing shriek of outrage, and the sounds of the ensuing scuffle, Dazai closed his eyes, tilting his head to the side as he allowed a small smile to play along his lips.

With any assassination request put out in their territory, of course the Port Mafia would be keeping close tabs on the situation. And if they saw it as advantageous, they would send in a kill squad, simple as that, ideally to a place with low security, unfamiliar faces, and fewer cameras, all qualities fitting the gala.

If the Port Mafia planned to eliminate their client, they would send only their best first to instill faith in their new customer, perhaps hoping for orders on a second hit.

And if they sent their best, then of course _he_ would be there.

Dazai tried to ignore the way that his pulse sped up up, sluggish heartbeat rising at the prospect of seeing him again.

Truly, Dazai was a fool of a different kind to go this far just for a mere glimpse of someone long since uninterested in him. Pining had never looked good on him, regardless of how long he’d worn it.

But even as he chastised himself for this behavior, saw the idea for the foolish thing it is, Dazai was unwilling to give up this chance.

Eyes sliding open, Dazai had given the Agency members an almost wicked smile.

“I, of course, will be our client’s date.”

——

**Author's Note:**

> Estes in this case is a reference to the author of “The Hundred Dresses” by Eleanor Estes. Though I don’t remember anything about he story, I really remember loving the book, so hopefully I didn’t misrepresent her too much in the story.
> 
> I’m working on some art for this story, so hopefully that’ll be finished in time for the next chapter! ^^ Until then though, if you want to talk about the story, BSD, or soukoku, feel free to message me @depths-of-the-sea on Tumblr! Comments and kudos are always really appreciated, and I always make sure to comment back on each message.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! ^^


End file.
